


Home is Anybody Calling

by lloydsglasses



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lloydsglasses/pseuds/lloydsglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo does not cry when he leaves Bag End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Anybody Calling

Bilbo does not cry when he leaves Bag End.

There’s a moment when he thinks he’s about to; after the packing is done and the boxes have been loaded onto a cart, there’s a moment when he wanders into his bedroom – _his bedroom,_ ever since he was a faunt – and sees… Well, he sees nothing at all but an empty room. Bilbo stares silently for a moment at the place where the model watermill he once built with his father used to sit, before he realises that his throat is tight and that the space beneath his chest feels achingly hollow. He retreats from the room hastily, hoping to stay his sudden swell of emotion.

But Bilbo doesn’t cry. Just as he didn’t cry when Lobelia and Otho invited themselves over for afternoon tea while he was in the middle of packing up his study, the two of them carrying out a loud discussion about where they could put things, interspersed with snide comments about Bilbo’s ‘lifestyle choices’. They were even gracious enough to offer him ‘advice’ – about the best way to pack, about which things he should leave behind and about the empty smial up in Hardbottle that would make for _a much better home than some dwarven monstrosity_ – but it wasn’t until Lobelia actually began to unpack one of his boxes so she could do it ‘the right way’ that Bilbo came close to crying tears of frustration. He kicked them out as soon as possible after that, shutting the door firmly in their faces when Otho began squawking about Bilbo’s rude manners. He didn’t get any more packing done that night, instead made innumerable cups of tea and served himself generous helpings of his finest cheeses in an effort to soothe his frayed temper.

If he has one true regret about this whole business it’s that Bag End is going to the Sackville-Bagginses. He’d been reluctant to accept their bid, but at the end of the day Bilbo would rather his beautiful smial be filled with life than be left to gather dust. His father had built it out of love, after all; it seems wrong to leave it empty now.

All the same, Bilbo worries that Lobelia and Otho won’t appreciate Bag End properly, despite how desperate the two of them were to get their hands on it. He has such cherished memories of this place; he remembers, for example, lying beside his mother in a den made entirely from blankets, listening with utmost attention as she told him stories about elves and ancient kings and trees that could walk; and he remembers standing on a stool in the kitchen with his hands in a bowl of dough while his father laughed and chopped strawberries beside him, both of their faces covered liberally with flour; and he has a more recent memory of thirteen rowdy dwarves and a wizard helping themselves to the contents of his pantry, of a haunting song about treasure and a lost homeland ringing out into the night, awakening in him the desire to see the great mountains and to hear the pine trees.

For fifty years this was Bilbo’s home. Leaving should be so difficult, because it feels almost like Bag End is built into the very fabric of his being. And yet, leaving is not so hard.

The thing is, he’s a different person now; he _has_ seen the great mountains, and he knows what it is to wear a sword instead of a walking stick. For better or for worse the journey to Erebor changed him and Bilbo is uncertain now whether the Shire, lovely as it is, will ever be enough for him again. Perhaps things might have been different had that final battle ended in death and misery rather than victory and a few miraculous recoveries, but as it is Bilbo finds himself yearning for something more than his old life.

Leaving this place doesn’t truly feel like a cause for sadness because if anything it feels like Bilbo’s moving forward. He’s not really leaving his life in the Shire behind; Bag End is still a fundamental part of him – he doesn’t need to live there for that to be true. And those memories he holds so dear are not of the smial itself but of his family, and the existence the three of them had together here; an existence that was lost to him after both his parents were gone.

But he thinks he might have found a new kind of existence now, one that can bring him just as much happiness as his life with his parents. It fills Bilbo with warmth and excitement to think about all the time he’ll be able to spend swapping recipes with Bombur or learning Dwarven knitting styles from Dori. He has a whole troupe of friends who are keen to teach him bawdy drinking songs he’s bound to disapprove of and insistent in their efforts to make him grow his hair long; friends who will laugh at his flailing arms when he trips during sword lessons, but who also won’t hesitate to offer him a hand back up. A world of entirely new possibilities and experiences has opened up to him – he wonders if he might even be permitted to learn Khuzdul, now that a king has named him _dwarf-friend_ in front of all Erebor.

Moving away feels grounding somehow, because Bag End had always felt so big after his parents died. It seems absurd to think about like that considering that he’s going to live in a mountain, but he can’t help thinking that even Erebor couldn’t possibly feel as empty as his home in the Shire, not when he has Bifur’s familiar rambling and Thorin’s soft smiles to keep him company. Hobbiton’s current inhabitants have branded him ‘Mad Baggins’ for that line of thinking, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that his mother would whole-heartedly approve.

So Bilbo does not cry as he steps out of Bag End, eyes catching on the cart that sits in front of his garden gate. He watches in amusement as Gloin’s son struggles out from behind some of the boxes, grumbling good-naturedly about being forced to do all the work. There’s not too much, if truth be told – he’s given most of his things away, taking a particularly vindictive pleasure in passing the silverware onto his cousin Drogo, rather than leaving it for the Sackville-Bagginses.

“That everything, Bilbo?” shouts Gloin from his seat on the front of the cart.

Bilbo nods. “Yes, I do believe it is.” 

He takes one last look inside Bag End before pulling the door shut, lips quirking upwards a little when he notices the distinctive mark left by a troublesome wizard nearly three years ago. The small smile remains in place even when the cart pulls away, Bilbo’s shoulder knocking companionably against Gloin’s as they ride over the small bumps and twists in the road.

And he does not cry as he leaves. Because this time home is not behind him; home is ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I spent the past week helping my dad pack up and move out of my childhood home and I realised I wanted a fic where Bilbo does the same thing, because he’s my favourite. <3
> 
> Title is taken from 'Tigers' by Guillemots. Because apparently I am on a mission to name most of my fics with their song lyrics.


End file.
